Quirks
It's hot today and I think I'll kill my wife. I've entertained the thought before but no other day seemed appropriate like this one or perhaps I've never been pushed so far over the edge. Perhaps it's because I'm too damn hot to put up with her fucking quirks. When my wife and I were dating my mother told me one day I'd think her quirks were cute. Well it's been 25 years since we got married and I don't find any of her habits cute or even bearable. I sit on the couch with my book ready for a relaxing afternoon when I see her walk past me. She just got out of the shower so her hair is still wet. How did it get so thin? I suddenly feel like a shower to wash off all this sweat.
I hate how she uses all the hot water in the shower. She never turns off the taps so the water drips. I can hear it from downstairs. I hate how she spends an hour and 45 minutes putting curls in her hair and I hate that moo moo she wears around the house. She looks like a 400 pound table cloth. What will the neighbors think when they see her? The thoughtless wench just goes outside to get the mail and doesn't think how I feel about her going in public like that. How did I get stuck with her? If I had been smart with my life I would have asked Sally Lynn out in high school. She was a cheerleader and I bet she looks smoking, still. She probably isn't fat with thinning hair and a triple chin. She'd probably think about my needs and tighten those fucking taps.
My wife smiles at me and I cringe.
She sits next to me on the couch and moves the fan closer even though it was close enough. Now it's too close and the strong wind is blowing so hard my eyelids are flapping. I have to keep blinking so my eyes won't dry out. She pushes the button so the fan pivots back and forth on it's base. I hate when she does that. Instead of having a steady stream of cool, recycled air, it comes in waves. Every three seconds my sweat glands expel liquid until the fan comes by again. Every three seconds I get a whiff of her horrid stench. I wonder how long the sweat has been fermenting in her rolls.
I wonder if I can make her death look like an accident.
She turns the television on and there goes my quiet afternoon with my book. I was hoping to spend my birthday in peace. That's right, it's my birthday and my wife has forgotten about it. Twenty five years I've been married to the bitch and this is the first year she hasn't made a big deal out of it. The set isn't working properly so she tries to adjust the bunny ears but is doing it completely wrong. She's moving them in large circles so the picture is snowier than it was before. “Move it in small circles,” I try to tell her.
I hope she electrocutes herself.
“Like this?”
“No, the other way.”
Maybe the set will blow up in her face.
“This way?” I sigh and get up to help her. I always have to help her with the damn t.v. If she'd just leave it alone and quit trying to dust it every five minutes she wouldn't bump the bunny ears making them move out of place. She'd never have to try and fix it again. I keep telling her that but she never listens. I tell her again and she ignores me.
The picture comes back on clear as a bell. She squeezes my cheeks and gives me a soppy kiss on the lips. I can feel a ring of saliva around my lips and I wipe it off. Her breath smells like garlic and tastes like onions. I watch as she wobbles to the couch and plops herself down like a sack of potatoes. I feel sorry for the couch. Reluctantly I sit next to her. She gets up again and goes into the bathroom then rummages through the medicine cabinet. It's time for her medicine.
I should do something with her medicine. Switch the bottles or something. Flush them down the toilet.
She has high blood pressure. Big surprise. I can see her from where I'm sitting and watch, hoping she will choke. She doesn't. She comes out, sits next to me again and starts cutting her toenails. She always has to do that while watching her show. I hate that. Another one of her quirks that I will never like. Her toenails are yellowed and hard. I look down at them knowing I shouldn't but it's like looking at roadkill. No matter how gross and disgusting it is, you have to take a peek. She needs hedge trimmers not nail clippers to cut those. I yawn and a piece of nail flies from the clippers right into my mouth. I feel it resting on my tongue then feel my gag reflex starting to act up. Quickly I take out the nail bit and look at it. She looks at it too. Then she laughs. I hate her laugh. She sounds like a seagull and when she starts to snort she sounds like a pot belly pig. I tell her it's not very funny and she tells me to lighten up.
I wish she'd fall in a hole and die. That would be a perfect birthday present. What did I get from her? Nothing. I never get anything decent. All I want is a set of golf clubs or a new lawnmower. Last year she got me a suit. I never wear suits.
Once again she gets up and this time goes into the kitchen. That would be the perfect place to kill her. A knife would work best. The first thing I would do is cut her throat from behind. That might be too gruesome. Blood would splatter all over the tile and I just put that in a month ago. A better idea would be to just stab her in the back like she has stabbed me in the back so many times. Then I'd stick her hand in the garbage disposal and cause her pain like the years of pain she has caused me.
I have to do it now. I go into the kitchen and walk to the knives without even looking at her. Looking at her makes me feel disgusted. She has not aged well and she has that one black hair growing out of her chin that I wish she would just pluck out but never does. Dinner smells good. Is she making pot roast? I love pot roast.
Focus.
I take one of the long knives that slightly curves up. I don't know what it's for but I'm sure it will cut through the fat very nicely. I turn around and there she is smiling at me. She's holding a cake that says, “Happy Birthday” on it. She remembered. I never thought she'd remember. I ask her if she is cooking pot roast and she says she is because she knows it's my favorite. She then asks me why I am holding a knife. I look at it and I don't know what to say. How could I murder such a loving, wonderful wife? She cooks for me. She cleans up after me. I know I'd be lost without her.
“I was going to help you cut the roast,” I say to her.
“It's your birthday, go and sit down.” I sit on the couch as the fan swings back and forth. I realize that all her quirks are kind of cute and I can live with them. No one else has cared for me quite like she has. What more can I ask for on my birthday than a pot roast and a loving wife?
